


Mother

by VinHampton



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 03:53:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1730174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VinHampton/pseuds/VinHampton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vin visits her mother's grave at Highgate Cemetery</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mother

"You know it closes at five, Miss."  
"Oh, I know. Just meeting a friend close by."  
"Be careful, will you? Don't want to see you on the news tomorrow morning. Keep your wits about you."  
"Promise I will. Keep the change, ta."

 

Vin steps out of the taxi, onto the road. On her right, the boundary brick wall of Highgate Cemetery stretches out for what seems like miles, separating the territory of the living from the land of the dead. It is late evening, the sun has long set, and the night sky blankets the city in darkness. The cemetery is closed for the day; the wrought iron gate, under its majestic stone archway, locked and bolted. Complete silence: not a living soul dare approach the cemetery gate at night, not even daredevil children. Highgate is revered by the city dwellers. It is a resting place of poets and politicians, of painters, printmakers and policemen, of pioneers and philosophers, of playwrights, publishers and philanthropists. 

Vin does not fear the dead - it is irrational; one would do better to fear the living - and yet she has only been to Highgate once, when she was 16. It was Easter Sunday, April 12, 1998. Spring was still young and grey clouds hung pendulous as her mother's coffin was lowered into the ground, threatening to rain, but seemingly impotent to the task. Not many people had turned up to the internment; they had gone on from the funeral to enjoy Easter lunch with their families, the service soon forgotten to the pleasant aroma of roast beef and fine wine. Mike had been at the burial, of course, and had placed his hand on her shoulder, as though he expected her to grieve. But she had not. She was too angry for that. Her father stared sullenly at the hole in the earth and never once offered to comfort his daughter. 

The wall presents a challenge, but it is not an impossible task. Vin does not know why she is so desperate to get on the other side, but the idea eats away at her mind and giving up or going home now is not an option. She takes her shoes off - right heel first, then left - and tucks the shoes beside the gate. Next, she finds a foothold in the wall and steps on it so her hands reach the top. Palms pressed down, she pushes herself up and over with some difficulty; it occurs to her she is out of shape. Her knee smarts as she lands on the other side, but she has made it. She feels a rush of excitement, being in the so-called City of the Dead at night time. She looks up at the waxing moon, which bathes the graves in a silvery light. From this part of London, she can see plenty more stars. 

She remembers the grave is in the cemetery's East Side, a few blocks away from Herbert Spencer's grave. Her mobile phone becomes a makeshift torch, shining just enough light for her to see what's right in front of her. Any onlookers may be forgiven for mistaking her for a haunted spirit as she walks, barefoot in her black dress, dark hair straggly and hanging down past her shoulders, pale face illuminated from underneath by the blue light of the phone. She finds a large map by the side of the path and points the phone at it, tracing the lines with her finger, squinting until she finds Spencer. He is not buried too far from where she is standing. She walks towards it, swinging the phone from left to right to see where she is going. On either side of the path, gravestones line the way like regimental soldiers, the older ones decorated with overgrown wild ivy. The copses of elms and poplars which litter the grounds have begun to regain their leaves.

The wind picks up suddenly, howling through the branches. It startles her and her hand immediately reaches for the handgun in her handbag. It is only the wind, she assures herself, as she carries on her way. She reaches the gravestone eventually, then turns right, counting the blocks as she walks - one, two, three... was it four? She turns left suddenly and counts three gravestones, then stops and points her phone at two stones sitting close together, a stone angel behind them placing a grey hand on each. To the right, Albert. She is not interested in him at all. To the left:

 

IN MEMORY OF JEANNE SPENCER HAMPTON  
LOVING WIFE AND MOTHER  
SEPTEMBER 19 1958 - APRIL 10 1998

 

She frowns at the lettering. "Loving wife and mother. You're a liar even now," she says, unnecessarily loudly. A crow caws close by as though to reprimand her. She reaches into her bag and lights a cigarette, staring at the stone for a long moment before she sits down on the ground. The earth is damp and muddy. Her dress will need drycleaning. Another thing she blames her mother for. She smokes silently, defiantly, looking at the stone as if it could ever sprout her mother's eyes and look back. In her mind, the grey clouds hang pendulous and impotent, but pregnant with rain. She is still angry. 

"You never loved me. Or if you did, it was not in a way I understood." This is silly, she thinks. She's never believed the dead stood by their graves. The dead don't stand at all. They lie in the ground and rot. And yet, she finds suddenly there is a lot to say. She smiles a little maliciously and tilts her head toward her father's grave. "You killed yourself to get away from him and now you'll rot next to him till kingdom come." A sudden vision of her mother smiling. That was a rare thought. "You barely ever smiled. And do you know what I realised when I found you all those years ago, swinging from that tree, you witch? I do not have any... not ONE memory of you saying you loved me."

Her lips tug down at the corners and a little reluctantly she raises a hand to her face and wipes away a fat tear that has rolled down her cheek. She has never cried for her mother. 

"I needed you for more than piano lessons and dresses, Mother. But you never forgave me, did you? You touched your stomach sometimes when you looked at me, you think I didn't notice. I saw your scar once, from one side to the other. I watched from behind the bathroom door as you looked at it in the mirror. You never forgave me, did you?"

She stubs the cigarette out in the muddy earth and lights another. She reaches a hand forward to touch the tombstone. It is cold and mossy. She cannot remember what her mother smelt like. 

"But I think I understand now. Because I repeated your mistake, Mother. I don't know if you would have felt bad for me or would have thought it served me right, but I made your mistake when I married Connor. Except I was more intelligent than you, Mother. I took my pills. I took my beatings, but I took my pills and I didn't bring any poor children into my husband's broken world. You should have known better. I know why you never forgave me: I ruined your chance of a way out. And I think when you took the final step off that stool under the tree you hoped I would be the one to find you."

She sobs quietly, her chin trembling. "If it had been different, would you have loved me, Mother? Did you ever? Could you have...?" Her voice breaks. "I will not apologise for being born. That's on you. And I know I need to stop being so angry with you, but I cannot, Mother. I will always hate you, because whenever I tried to show you love, you pushed me away. I was only a child, for fuck's sake. I needed you. You were awful but you were my mother, my only one. So I... I can't, you see? I will always be angry with you. I deserved better from you, from both of you. But especially from you."

Cigarette still hanging from her lips, she stands up, reaching into her bag for a tissue and finding none. She presses the heels of her palms into her eyes, tears smudging mascara. "Goodbye. I won't visit again." A bitter sob escapes her lips. It is not grief but self-pity and she shakes her head, angry at herself. Self-pity is never productive, only indulgent. 

She walks back the way she came, the gravel hurting the soles of her feet. The trees look menacing now. This was not a good idea. She wants to go home. She walks until she reaches the gate, and after two attempts, manages to jump over the wall again. She looks for her shoes, which have of course been stolen. Defeated, she sits by the gate and waits for a taxi to drive by for what seems like hours until she gives up and pulls out her phone.


End file.
